


The Problem With Memories

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horace's relationship with Albus has never been straightforward; he has always been left at once ecstatic, confused and hurt to the bone. As the two friends become reacquainted during one of the wizarding world's most trying years, what, this time, might play out differently? How might memories of times past impact upon the future, and what secrets might come to the surface? Set during 'The Half Blood Prince.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem With Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwaysasnapefan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=alwaysasnapefan).



**July**

_Budleigh Babberton it was to be, then._ Thus thought Horace Slughorn as he settled in to what must have been the fifty-fifth house he had occupied of late - or was it the fifty-seventh? He stretched his toes as far as they would reach on the floral footstool and listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock, which echoed rather inanely about the bijou dwelling. 

He tried to convince himself that it would be dinnertime soon, but without much success. In the absence of other wizards, a box of chocolates was the best company he could hope for, and he certainly wasn't going to deny himself that. Therefore, he brought the violet creams to the ready.

Life in hiding did not quite equate to the salubrious manner in which Horace would have preferred to spend his retirement. He'd honestly not envisaged this - but then again who could have? The world suddenly sent out of kilter once more; disappearances; a twitching fear that things would only become worse before they could get better... and Horace had never been one for danger.

He supposed that these vacated Muggle homes were acceptable enough - when they had been sufficiently customized, adapted and provisioned, that is - but he _did_ miss his London mansion; his team of elves; his Society parties. Horace sighed wistfully as images of young men in dress robes slid through his memory - waltzing, tangoing and foxtrotting off into the murky distance as rain slid over the double-glazing outside.

Horace supposed that the continual packing, moving and resettling was plenty to keep him occupied, but after a short while any charming hint of a childhood camping adventure had long departed and the whole process was a tedious chore; not to mention lonely.

And vulnerable. Horace hated feeling vulnerable; indeed he had made great efforts throughout his life to avoid that feeling at all costs - cushioning himself liberally with fine things, useful connections and influential people. The fact that one H. Slughorn Esq. had abandoned his family seat to skulk timidly in locations not present on a wizarding map expressed a great deal about the danger of the times... and Horace thought once again that he had most emphatically _never_ been one for danger.

As if some malign force had heard that very thought, the Intruder Charms that Horace had set in the locale of the house sounded loudly, making him drop a chocolate mid-way to his mouth and almost choke on the one before it. He reacted quickly thereafter however, grabbing his wand and inflicting damage upon the room with lightning speed - levitating, dropping, slashing, breaking, splashing - just as he had rehearsed so many times in his mind during the previous year's sleepless, fitful nights. The front door clicked open just as his work was complete and he cast the final charm about himself - rich velvet robes blending into upholstery and his natural shape lending itself well to the illusion of luxuriant feather stuffing.

Horace held his breath - as well an armchair might - and peered at the door jamb that was to reveal his adversary at any second. A Death Eater; a wizard with a blackened soul; one who shows true cruelty and no remorse. Horace gripped his wand tightly and wondered whether he could stun the intruder for long enough to make his escape. The handle turned slowly, stealthily, and a tall shadow loomed forward. Horace's heart rose to his throat, and then...

...He beheld a sight that made him both collapse in relief and caused the blood to vortex in his veins. In a crazy moment, gazing upon the man who had entered the room, Horace wondered whether he might have preferred to have faced a Death Eater after all.

Those blue, twinkling eyes. That smiling, duplicitous mouth that kissed like fire and ambrosia and had made Horace forget himself in passion. Thousands of tiny memories attacked Horace like a swarm of hornets and it was all he could do to remain still and quiet.

Not that that did any good of course; it would be nigh-on impossible to outwit Albus Dumbledore with a flashy yet simple piece of self-transfiguration. Within seconds Horace felt himself being prodded by graceful, bony fingers and he had no choice but to sheepishly return to his true form and bumptiously greet the man whom he both wanted to never see again and to gaze upon forever.

Small-talk ensued: Canary Islands - charming village - dragon's blood. Horace was pleased that he was sufficiently practiced to do this on autopilot while his mind reeled and his stomach somersaulted.

Horace had thought, of course, that he had gotten over it. Managed to forget Albus Dumbledore. He had spent a good deal of his retirement trying to do that very thing - travelling widely, losing himself in vineyards and chocolate houses and Turkish brothels filled with pert young men who were so cheerful and willing, and very reasonably priced. He had thought that those saddening, maddening thoughts were all behind him, consigned to youth and silliness. But at that moment, as Albus' charming, fiery gaze bore through his eyes, he had never felt more wrong.

The words that came next seemed almost casual, polite, at arm's length. _Wouldn't-you-terribly-mind-coming-back-to-teach-old-thing?_

Horace rebuffed the idea at once, almost as a reflex not a judgement. This of course had clearly been expected; Albus' light, conversational tone remained. _Naturally-wouldn't-want-to-be-interfering-of-course-you-feel-that-way._

His eyes, however, told a different story, and with them came the legilimency at which Albus was so skilled. Horace felt not an invasion of his own thoughts, but a powerful, tantalizing voice planted in his head which had not traveled there via his ears.

_We need you, Horace. **I** need you._

Oh, what he would have given to have heard that nearly two decades before! How could this man walk so nonchalantly back into his life and tug at the very strings that he had carelessly wound around his heart? What gave him the right? Horace was at once angry and overjoyed; at once slapped and caressed.

Carefully he gathered together his strength and his dignity. "The answer's no, Albus." Horace paused carefully at the end of that statement.

Albus continued smoothly, however. "I suppose we can have a drink at least? For old times' sake?" 

Was it impossible to discombobulate that man? How could he settle so comfortable down and create a charade of chatter about Death Eaters and Dolores Umbridge? Horace fervently wished that Albus would just go; leave him to his hiding and hurt feelings - and this sentiment was probably all too obvious when Albus made to stand. "Are you leaving?"

"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom?"

"Oh. Second on the left down the hall." Albus bowed courteously and exited the room, leaving Horace alone with the Headmaster's young charge. 

In different circumstances, Horace would have given half of his moustache to have a chat with the famous Harry Potter. However, just then he felt nothing but his mouth wandering along memory lane as his sense and feelings waged a fierce battle within.

The Boy Who Lived _had_ been the enticement, of course, that was for certain. Horace could decide to save his pride and try to convince himself that the opportunity to teach the one and only Harry Potter was the thing that made him change his mind. Of course it was. That would sound pretty good actually, he mused. Definitely one up from Gwenog Jones.

However, no matter how skilled Horace could be at self-delusion, he always recognized it for what it was. The tall, elegant, supremely magical man who presently swept back into the room was the real reason he agreed, and it was almost with a sense of triumphant defeat that Horace flew once more into the Dumbledore web; a plump, juicy fly that wants to feel nothing more than the colourful intensity of it's own demise.

*****

**September**

Horace found that it was remarkably easy to fall back into all of the old Hogwarts routines; a sumptuous breakfast in Great Hall leading to a few hours of potions with the little scallywags, popping back for luncheon, a nap if there was time in the afternoon, more teaching, some marking, dinner in his rooms (for the school catering was all very well, but one deserved at least one luxury meal a day), and then a snifter or two in the common room before bed. It was harder work than he was accustomed to these days, but the sense of security did offset some of that tiresome adrenaline that comes from being in hiding. Altogether, it was perfectly comfortable.

At least, it was perfectly comfortable when Horace kept his thoughts to his duties and hobbies. Albus' was never far from his mind, even when the man disappeared from the school with no explanation for days on end, as had recently been his wont. 

On the positive side however, Horace had quickly found that his reaction of utter panic when in Albus' presence had been relatively short-lived; that evening in Budleigh Babberton had definitely been exasperated by the preceding months spent in nervous hiding and by the sheer unexpectedness of it all. He was far past any state of youthful infatuation, he told himself. Such daftness was probably just caused by indigestion, anyway. There was no reason why he wouldn't be able to exist here, alongside Albus, as the fully-grown adults that they were, without the worry of any... _funny business._ Horace was determined to remain on an even keel - just to teach, enjoy meals and hopefully get through the next year or so without calamity.

With this attitude therefore, Horace had mustered his formidable conversational skills and had gone about resuming and forging friendships with the other members of Hogwarts staff - ever generous with invitations to supper and little pieces of gossip that although two years out of date were still fairly juicy. There was no reason not to include Albus in this sense of camaraderie, Horace reasoned - in fact it would have been rather pointed not to - and if Albus were to receive an invitation slightly more frequently than, say, Argus Filch, that was just a coincidence owing to the fact that Honeydukes had over-delivered sherbet lemons.

To this end, the two of them shared suppers, drinks, games of cards. They exchanged news - sometimes cheer, sometimes grave - of mutual acquaintances and reminisced about times which had perhaps seemed happier and simpler.

Horace found that the natural affability between he and Albus was still very much present - _chemistry_ some would call it, although Horace had never been sure what chemicals might have to do with the process. They had always shared a sense of humour; it was pleasant - and surely harmless? - to indulge that while he may. Although he may not have admitted it to himself, Horace delighted in these times. He seemed to plan the menu extra-carefully when Albus was coming for dinner; to extract the best wines from his collection. 

On one such occasion, Horace was bustling about in his chambers waiting for the arrival of the Headmaster. The fact that he had been looking forward to it all day was not at all accurate, and if it were, that was simply because he had ordered a particularly fine Chateaubriand. Besides, he thought, somewhat grumpily, friendship was good and honest and important, wasn't it? That and that alone was the only issue at hand.

Albus knocked at the door at precisely the appointed hour. "Good evening, my friend. You really are spoiling me, you know. The second invitation to your chambers in less than a week."

"Think nothing of it, nothing at all," Horace welled, full of bonhomie, "Now do sit down. Drink? Elf-made wine? Thrice-fermented Butterbeer?"

"Wine would be splendid, thank you. But I better not have too much..." Albus sat down somewhat gingerly, keeping one hand safely below the table.

"Why not, Albus? Surely you're not feeling off-colour? I must say you do look a little peaky..." Horace crossed to Albus' side of the table to peer diagnostically at his face, then glanced pointedly at where his hand must have been resting.

"Oh, don't worry about me. No change at all in my health this month, don't fret," Albus said, perhaps a little too firmly. "How about that wine I was promised?"

Horace poured two generous glasses, and decided not to pursue the subject. There were plenty of other things to say, anyway - particularly when an elf brought the magnificent piece of beef and it was time to carve.

Wine flowed and dinner disappeared with amazing speed - even when the fillet was followed by a splendid tarte tatin with Chantilly cream. The air was relaxing; almost sleepy in its warmth and heady thickness...

"... and then he said, 'Quite honestly, young sir, if you don't have a dragon of your own you wouldn't know what to do with the body,' and I drew myself up to my full height and said, 'Actually, I intend to write the book about it!'" Albus finished his anecdote in triumph and Horace chuckled loudly at the tale. Such wonderful reminiscences of their old academy days!

When the laughter died down there was a pause, wistfully remembering exuberant times past. Horace felt his eyes glazing over and a small lump forming at his throat, despite the liqueur. "Do you remember when we first met, Albus?" he asked, on impulse. Horace didn't know what possessed him to say that and he had even less clue as to why he suddenly felt terribly tense while awaiting the response. He lounged back in his chair while cradling a bowl of cognac; a pose of exaggerated nonchalance as he endeavored to signal nothing of how he was fervently wishing for the right answer to that question.

"Yes, of course I do!" came the rather impatient yet amused answer over steepled fingers, "How could anyone who had been to one of your parties forget you, my friend? You were quite the little socialite even back then. I daresay that the apprentice wing of the Institut Pierrot Magicale has never seen such extravagant gatherings - before or since. There was one time when I think you asked your parents to send over five truckles of Stilton, just to prove to the Gauls that they weren't the only one's who could make cheese."

Not quite the response Horace had hoped for. Drawing a deep breath he covered his disappointment with, "Well, I suppose that might be the shape of it."

A satirical smile. "Well, pardon me if it isn't. Things do tend to get a bit fuzzy at this advanced age." Albus patted the side of his head, indicating a brain that was, in truth, razor sharp. "But I'm afraid I must retire for the evening. Thank you again for a splendid supper." With that Albus rose, and inclined his head toward Horace as he was shown to the door.

Left alone in his chambers Horace regarded the ruins of dinner and quickly decided that the mess could wait until morning. His head was spinning slightly and his mind was swamped by the shadows of many poignant thoughts - none of which would stay for long enough to properly decipher. 

Horace retired to his bedroom - a little tipsy; strangely choked up. He was tired enough to go straight to sleep, but the alcohol had given him lucidity and emotions that were both too bright and too raw. He therefore propped himself up in bed when clad in robe and nightcap and fished around in the bedside cabinet for a small silver-filigree frame, seventy years old. It housed a photograph of Albus; auburn and astonishing. 

Horace peered at the image, both indignant and with bittersweet thoughts. The miniature Albus peered back, devilish yet kind, and prompted Horace to start talking.

"Well yes, of course I know that we studied in the same establishment, Albus!" he cried, "But that wasn't exactly what I was referring to. Could you not be more specific?" A haughty gaze from the photograph. "Well no, I daresay you couldn't." 

Horace sighed deeply and all the aggression left him. His eyes glazed a little with the cognac and memories and the words trickled elegiacally forth. "It's quite right, of course, we were both at the Institut Pierrot Magicale in Paris. 'Gay Paree,' as some would say! - Although you were a few years ahead of me in the process. It's funny how those age-differences seemed so significant back then.”

"But I actually meant the very first occasion upon which we met, not the general circumstance. I suppose you would have no reason to remember, really, but for some cause or other I seem to have treasured it up in my silly old heart."

He sighed theatrically, glad that there was no-one to hear. "It was the time when we Potions apprentices had to brew something really out of the ordinary - something we hadn't been taught but had researched. The twenty-third of June, to be precise - of that I'm sure. A lot of my crew took pleasure in choosing something that was border-line legal; the kind of thing that the authorities would turn a blind eye to in the context of an Institut seminar but would look very harshly upon if found in a back-street apothecary. I was always a jolly sort of chap, though - Dark potions had never really rattled my cage, as it were - so I plumped for a pretty cauldron-full of Felix Felicis.”

"The brewing process went pretty well as I recall; the final product was of course not as potent as if it had been made by a fully-qualified Potions Master, but it was respectable, nonetheless. I think I was awarded a merit-mark for it, actually - and afterwards I did have the Potion to keep or dispose of as I pleased. I was well aware of the health risks of taking the stuff repeatedly, but I figured that a little couldn't hurt, so the next day I drank two tablespoons-full with breakfast - more out of curiosity than everything else.”

He smiled broadly, the tale taking upon life of its own. "And, just as you'd expect, everything that day went swimmingly - I got full-marks in my assignments, my favourite food was on the menu for lunch and dinner and the weather was perfect. However, most of that paled in comparison, because that evening I saw for the first time a devastatingly handsome young man with flowing auburn hair, a lovely voice and more natural magic than the rest of the students combined. I learned that he had just joined the Advanced Transfiguration course, and that his name - yes, you guessed it - was Albus Dumbledore.

"I was much shyer back then than I am now, so I would never usually have dared to approach someone so beautiful. And yes - I do very much mean _beautiful_. But that day I figured that luck had to be on my side, so I went up to you after dinner and introduced myself. Unlike most handsome men, you were actually very nice."

"I daresay I'm pleased to hear it!" declared the photograph indignantly. 

That outburst somewhat broke Horace from his reverie, but he continued the tale with renewed enthusiasm nonetheless. "A little tingle surged all through me when we shook hands, and your smile turned me practically into a puddle on the floor, old thing. We talked for a little while and then... that was it. Not the strongest potion in the world, as I said. Probably not enough for you to remember - and I don't blame you for a second - but I'm pretty sure I went some way to falling head-over-heels for you just then. 

"We became acquaintances in due course, as you well know - part of the same wider circle, and all that - but I was always too timid to try to get any closer and you were always so popular it was difficult to know how one would go about it, even if I had mustered-up the nerve. And then... well, you know the rest, don't you, Alby?"

At that point the figure in the photograph complained loudly about a large splash of water that landed upon it. Horace sniffed loudly, then realized that the moisture had, in fact, been a tear - born of wine and reminiscence. He harrumphed in embarrassment and retrieved a silk handkerchief to mop somewhat ineffectually at the dampness in his eyes and mustache before extinguishing the light and nestling down to try to sleep. Such foolishness would surely be gone by morning.

*****

**November**

The nights had become longer, blacker and colder, making the inhabitants of the castle increasingly grateful for their warmth and security at night time. It was thus a rather disgruntled Horace Slughorn who was roused from his bed at 2 o'clock one autumn night to answer a quiet but insistent knock on the door.

Peering through the door jamb he was surprised to find Albus - wearing robes that had been badly torn and charred, and a somewhat forced sense of composure. "So sorry to bother you at this time of night, Horace, but I wonder if I could ask a small favour?" he said smoothly.

Horace's reaction was far from composed, however. "What on earth have you been doing, man?" he asked in shock.

"Ah, well. If I were to tell you, I don't think you would believe me. I have been letting off Muggle fireworks in honour of the fifth of November."

"The fifth of...?"

"November - yes. It's a tradition among Muggles - one that I have always been rather partial to. They do illuminate the sky so beautifully. But as you can see I managed to get into a bit of trouble with one this year, and I wondered whether you might have any burn-healing potion in your stores at the moment? I would do it myself with a spell, but that's never as effective as the real thing..."

Horace's expression of shock changed into one of chastisement, and then indulgence. _Muggle fireworks!_ Was he really supposed to believe that for a moment? However, he would never refuse a request from Albus - especially when said wizard was standing somewhat forlornly on his doorstep, twinkling at him from eyes that were bordered by slightly sooty cheeks. "You had better come in," said Horace, "I'll see what I can find."

Albus nodded gratefully, and entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him while Horace whiffled through his large collection of potion supplies in a nearby cabinet. He was fairly sure that he had the very balm that was required, brewed less than a month ago... but where could it be?

Finally, Horace's fingers found the bottle in question and he passed it to Albus in triumph. "You'd better use that immediately, mind - the efficacy diminishes rapidly from the moment the burns were inflicted."

"Thank you very much, my friend. Do you mind if I go in there to see to them?" Albus gestured toward Horace's bathroom.

"Be my guest. I'll just sit here and try to convince myself it's not the middle of the night - if you need anything."

Albus chuckled at that and strode across to the bathroom. However, he wasn't able to completely cover the fact that he winced in discomfort as he walked - an observation that Horace mused upon as he collapsed into an armchair and idly reached for a nearby box of cookies.

After several minutes, Horace was roused by a slightly sheepish voice coming through the interior door. "Um, Sluggy? I'm terribly sorry to have to ask, but there are a few patches that I can't quite reach... Nothing to make a maiden blush - I promise - but it's terribly awkward, what with this hand being a bit off-colour at the moment..."

Horace's breath caught in his throat in a way that he had no wish to examine too closely - never mind the fact that he had a nagging feeling about Albus' injured hand in the first place. He therefore made a conscious effort to lower the pitch his voice and lay on the clubbable spirit. "I daresay I'll do my best, old man! Just coming." He prised himself from the armchair and opened the bathroom door.

He found Albus waiting for him, clad in a white under-robe that came down to his knees and elbows. Several pink patches of newly-repaired skin were visible, looking very fresh and healthy. Indeed, Horace used the small part of his brain that was not preoccupied to congratulate himself on a jolly fine brew. The rest of his mind however, was very much preoccupied - by the beautiful shape of Albus' calf muscles - almost always hidden under swathes of velvet robes, but oh, so wonderfully turned!

Horace tried his very hardest not to stare. "So whereabouts needs attention, old thing?" he forced himself to say.

"There are some patches on my back, and on my left side, unfortunately. Those sparks really do get everywhere."

Horace seized that chance to ask the question that had been troubling him for the past few months, "You didn't hurt your hand like that too, did you? Being foolish with Muggle explosives? It's just that it doesn't seem to be healing very quickly..."

Albus tensed slightly at the mention, but covered it quickly. "No, not exactly. That was a different kind of foolishness altogether. But don't trouble yourself about it - no problems with using my wand, you see. Now, if I get my robe out of the way I wonder if you'd mind seeing to these sore spots?" With that, Albus turned around and lifted the robe over his head, remaining clad only in respectable undershorts.

Horace dearly wished at that moment that he could have been anywhere else but trapped in his own bathroom with a semi-naked Albus; his breath seemed to have left his body and the heating in the room suddenly seemed far too fierce. The man had revealed strong shoulders clad in skin that was far too smooth for his age, tapering down to an elegant, somewhat muscular back. Against his better judgement, Horace's gaze was forced inexorably downwards to Albus' scantily clad posterior - and oh, what a sight!

His eyes widened, and a small part of his brain that was not overtaken by seriously lascivious thoughts complained loudly at the injustice of it all. It was criminal, really, decided Horace: the man had the arse of a twenty-five year old! Round, shapely and firm, just like it had been however many decades earlier. 

_Trust Albus-bloody-Dumbledore to keep his figure!_ It wasn't enough for him to be the most powerful and celebrated wizard of this age - oh no - _he_ had to stay soddingly gorgeously fuckable past the age of a hundred, just to make the point. 

Albus had always been lithe and trim and lovely, but one might have thought he'd have the decency to allow time to ravage him a bit more than this, thought Horace, grumpily. There were a few cursory wrinkles, it was true, but the man was basically the same powerful, lean and attractive figure of old.

Horace traced the lines of Albus' legs with his eyes - long and muscular - and couldn't quite make his gaze travel past that glorious arse. With a little impatience Albus turned around sharply then, and revealed - to Horace's dismay - a lean stomach _with defined abdominal muscles._ \- The sort sported by young Quidditch jocks that old queens fantasize about running stubby fingers over, feeling the firm mounds and clefts under the skin between ragged breaths...

Horace decided that this was becoming ridiculous. "Very good, Albus, you've had your fun, you can drop the glamour, now," he blustered.

Albus however, looked genuinely confused at that request. "I promise you, I'm not casting any charm. Check if you like, but please - just get that ointment onto my back before I end up singed to bits!"

Horace harrumphed at that but felt he had no choice but to believe Albus' claim. The idea that such beauty was natural was having a greater effect upon certain parts of his anatomy than he cared to admit, and it was with timorous, excitable fingers that he applied the healing balm to Albus' burns.

The ointment worked practically upon contact, and very soon Albus' back was perfectly mended. Then it was just the burn marks on his side to attend to - affording a view of that splendid torso once more. It took all of Horace's self control to touch only the areas that needed treatment and not to give in to his desire to stroke Albus' pert nipples... his taut stomach...

"There. All done," he said in a voice that sounded brisk even to his own ears. "I'll just leave you to get dressed," and with that, Horace made a hasty escape from the bathroom.

A few moments later, Albus emerged also - and to Horace's great relief, he was fully dressed and smiling broadly. "Thank you so much for you help, my friend, and I'm so sorry to have bothered you at this time of night. Poppy is off-duty this evening, and as much as Severus may have had the potion I needed, I doubt that he would have been nearly as sympathetic and helpful. I definitely owe you a favour." 

All of a sudden, Albus was impossibly close, and Horace realized that he was being embraced - being _hugged_. It was warm, close, lovely... and did absolutely nothing to quell the heat that had been building in his belly.

And then, in a moment, the contact had gone. Albus was seeing himself toward the door, inclining his head once more in an appreciative nod.

"Goodnight, then," Horace called after him.

"Goodnight, my friend, and sleep well."

However, Horace could then do anything but sleep. As he fervently stroked himself to completion that night, he realized that it would be very difficult to pretend any longer that Albus Dumbledore was not an attractive man.

*****

**December**

The staff Christmas party struck Horace as particularly jolly that year - or at least it was far more jolly than hiding in a deserted Muggle house and ordering in turkey and trimmings. Everyone was making a real effort - Sybill was saner than usual, Filius had decorated beautifully, Hagrid had brushed his beard, and Severus was even being civil. 

Most of all, though, in Horace's opinion, Albus was spectacular. He cut an impressive figure in purple velvet dress-robes embroidered with gold and played host to the party to perfection. He twinkled around the room filling glasses and engaged everyone in conversation. When it was time to be seated for dinner he smiled pleasantly as Horace subtly claimed the place on his right - there was some sense to being served dinner first, Horace justified to himself - and even pulled out the chair with a gallant flair to help Horace be seated without tripping in his own swathes of green damask.

Excellent courses were eaten and the conversation seemed to flow as easily as the wine. Horace had heard a rumour that Severus and Minerva had begun a romantic liaison these past few months so he kept a beady eye upon them - somewhat disappointed when he could detect no out-of-the-ordinary vibes but similarly sure that neither were exactly the type for public displays of affection. 

Considering this idea further over the sorbet, he could certainly see some sense to the match. They were both intensely studious and loyal to their own houses in a way that could be appreciative of impassioned opposition. Neither had wed, to his knowledge, so there was clearly something that kept their attention at Hogwarts - so why not one another? 

Although he was supremely comfortable in his own state as an eccentric old queen, Horace did like to see the young men and women happily coupled together if that was their wont; and who deserved that sort of happiness more than dear little Minnie and the highly talented young Severus? They were definitely decent sorts, Horace mused as his wine was magically refilled for the umpteenth time - a little surly at times, granted, but definitely hardworking and brave and supremely loyal to Albus. 

_Ah, Albus!_ his thoughts sang, and then Horace forgot all speculation about the romantic lives of colleagues in favour of turning to the man to his side and starting a light-hearted conversation about legitimate uses for the wizarding Black Market.

The evening wore on in good spirits, but it was inevitable that people were to begin to fade - especially after such a trying term. Horace had drunk rather more than even he was accustomed to, so was feeling pleasantly woozy and rather tired. When Albus drew the evening to a close and everyone said their goodbyes and Merry Christmases, he therefore found himself winding gently along one of the school corridors back toward his rooms, and failed to notice the sharp footsteps behind him until they were accompanied by an equally sharp tap on his shoulder.

"Horace, I'd like a quick word, if I may?" said Minerva, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yes, certainly!" said Horace, still full of bonhomie, "Wasn't that just a perfectly super evening? Hic- So many smiles... such good cheer!"

A small furrow appeared upon her brow as she stopped to consider. "Well, I suppose everyone's putting their best face on, just in case."

"Just in case what, my girl?" he asked in genuine puzzlement.

Minerva seemed poised to answer the question, but couldn't help interrupting herself. "Horace Slughorn. I am seventy-six years of age. Do you not think it might be somewhat inappropriate to address me as 'my girl'?"

"Not at all, Minnie, old thing!" Horace was getting in his stride then. He felt pleasantly flushed from those last glasses of port that Albus had so kindly poured for him, even if his legs did seem slightly unbalanced. "No - when you've been around as long as Albus and I have...Albus and I go way back, you know; very close; ever-so close..."

"Well, yes," Minerva answered, her brisk Scottish tone softening a little. "It was, in fact Albus about whom I wanted to speak with you."

"Oh?" Horace's interest was very much piqued, but a sense of foreboding was creeping up on him from Minerva's quiet - almost _sympathetic_ tone. "What is it, then? What do you want to say?"

She took a deep breath and lowered her voice even more. "I _know,_ Horace... I know how you feel about him. It showed through every minute this evening - the adoring glances, hands lingering on the wine bottle, the attention paid to every word. And on occasions like this, he laps it all up, the old flirt! I wanted to warn you to be careful. It was obvious to me tonight, and if you're not more discreet it will be obvious to the whole school."

Horace was somewhat taken aback by this uninvited but uncomfortably accurate assessment of his behaviour. He felt utterly guileless, so ineffectually blustered, "Really, madam, I don't think..." At that point however, Horace remembered a weapon he could use and seized upon it with great triumph. "But I know about you and Severus! A little loving going on there between Gryffindor and Slytherin, that's for sure, my girl."

"Yes, well," Minerva shifted a little uncomfortably at that turn in the conversation. "If you happen to know precisely what is going on there I'd be delighted if you were to enlighten me, for I'm certain that I do not!" 

Her eyes focussed into the distance in front of them, and Horace considered that his might not have been the only tongue loosened by alcohol that evening. Presently, she continued, "We connect very deeply with one another. He makes me ever so happy at times, and I wonder why we had waited so long. Perhaps in different circumstances something could be made to last... but he still pines for..." Minerva checked herself abruptly. "What am I saying?" She pulled herself up very straight and glowered a little, although it was not clear who was the intended target. "Besides - and this in fact brings me back to my original point - you are aware that myself and Severus may have begun a liaison of sorts because I asked that the staff be a.) subtly informed, and b.) prevent suchlike gossip from reaching the pupils. It seemed the most efficient way of dealing with the matter and ensuring secrecy within the wider school community. You, on the other hand, have put no such measures in place."

"Well perhaps I would if there actually was a relationship to gossip _about!_ " Horace cried without warning. He wasn't quite sure where that outburst had come from, and was equally puzzled by the strange prickling sensation at the corner of his eyes.

It had clearly had some effect upon Minerva, however, and she put a kindly arm about his shoulders with a sad smile. "Well, touché. I'm sorry; I didn't want to speak out of turn. But you have rather hit on the matter that I really wanted to mention, there. You see, it isn't really the people-knowing-about-it that I'm concerned about - more the thing itself." She sighed once again, seeming to weigh her words. "Just... please be careful, Horace. He's not an easy person to get tied up with; nothing is simple. You wouldn't be the first to end up hurt."

With that, Minerva gave Horace a quick squeeze and departed for her own quarters. He silently meandered back to the cosier end of the Slytherin dungeons, trying hard not to think about what she had just said and trying to deny the absurd bubble of happiness that he felt at the mere _mention_ of the idea that he and Albus could one day be in a proper relationship.

Barely a moment passed however, before Horace's walk was interrupted once again - and this time it was Albus himself standing in his path. Horace's heart to skipped a beat or two at the sight and he was overcome by strange, ridiculously optimistic thoughts about what this encounter might signify.

"I want you to give me something, Horace," said Albus directly.

"Yes... anything!" _This was it!_ he thought. The relationship at which Minerva had been hinting. Albus wanted him after all. He was so pleased, so excited...

"I want you to give me your memory of talking to Tom Riddle about Horcruxes."

"What?" Horace asked weakly. He felt drenched with cold water. "I don't know what you mean..."

"I fear that you do, my friend," Albus replied gravely. "I'm not trying to judge you or accuse you of anything but I need to see that event for myself."

Horace was in an utter panic. Oh, how he had regretted those foolish words of fifty years previous! How ashamed he felt of the fact that Riddle had wooed and won his affections. How desperately he wished for Albus to regard him highly, to feel affection toward him, perhaps even to one day... 

Horace couldn't quite bring himself to finish that sentence, but he felt the keenness of it, all the same. He couldn't possibly reveal the truth, not when everything was at stake - everything that was so real that even Minerva had noticed it. Albus stood before him, unmovingly blocking his way along the corridor. There was no way he could avoid the situation; could never refuse Albus what he asked. And yet, carrying out that request seemed equally damaging, equally implausible.

Therefore, Horace acted in panic. "Very well," he mumbled, and went through the charade of extracting a silvery thread from his temple into Albus' waiting bottle. The thread was not pure and glistening, however, but slightly yellowed and glutinous with tampering. Very coarse, hasty tampering at that; split-second, tipsy tampering that would not fool a low-level Ministry operative, let alone Albus Dumbledore. Horace cringed at the crudeness of what he had just done, but was sure he had no choice.

Yet, he was granted relief from his immediate predicament. Albus moved gracefully to one side, allowing Horace to gratefully shuffle past. "Merry Christmas, Horace. And thank you," he said, still radiating all the warmth that he had at the party. Horace wished that he could bask in that warmth, but then felt nothing but chill and anxiety. 

He couldn't quite meet Albus' eye as he muttered a reply and headed finally, desolately, to bed.

*****

**January**

Horace was worried. In general, the atmosphere in the school seemed to be becoming more tense by the second - especially since that poor girl from Gryffindor had been cursed so badly she was still marked 'critical' in the Dark Enchantments ward in St. Mungos. In specific terms, he was also feeling very shaken following a conversation with Severus.

It had started innocuously enough. Horace had cornered the younger man in the dungeon corridor to ask about the progress of a couple of recalcitrant members of their house. Severus had put up his usual battle of superiority as Head of said house, accusing Horace of interfering - and had then capitulated to discuss the progress of these particular fifth-years in their other subjects. When it had become clear that one of them was doing no work whatsoever, Horace had floated the idea that she should be sent to the Headmaster.

Severus' reaction to that had sent a chill along his spine: "As if Albus would have the time for a pupil missing her homework, among all of his _excursions_. Hardly life-threatening, is it?" The comment had been delivered with Severus' usual dry sarcasm, but there had been something particular about the way he had enunciated the words, 'life-threatening' - as if there had been a flicker of meaning, designed to be picked up by only a fellow Slytherin whom Severus knew well and necessarily denied thereafter.

Of course, when Horace had questioned Severus further, he came up against the man's customary cold implacability. Nothing could be said aloud, or even passed through the language of thoughts. Yet, Severus had definitely told him _something_ ; something awful, Horace wagered. As Minerva's lover, Severus was bound to know about the conversation that she and Horace had exchanged before Christmas, bound to think that he could pass on any information he had in the most oblique way possible...

These thoughts gnawed at Horace all the way through the rest of the day's teaching, making him feel more ill and flustered as the day progressed. As the final lesson was drawing to a close, suddenly, sickeningly, it all crystallized. 

Horace knew that he had been blind, shutting his eyes and ears to that which he did not want to hear or see. Albus was putting himself in terrible danger. He could be lost at any moment.

That dreadful jolt of realization brought many things in Horace's mind sharply into focus. He was desperately in love with Albus. That fact now felt as clear as the knowledge that crystallized pineapple was his favourite sweet and that he was probably three times over his recommended bodyweight.

Horace knew with equal clarity that he couldn't stand the idea of losing Albus without having the chance to say how he felt. To never see him again with all that unsaid was unthinkable; unbearable. 

It was therefore emotion, not planning or good Slytherin sense that carried Horace breathlessly to Albus' office just then, still clutching his quill pen from the marking that he had been trying to do when all of these thoughts coalesced into one seething whole, and without anything that resembled a plan.

He pretty much shouted the password at the gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase, and marched up the stairs two at a time before diving into Albus' study without waiting for an answer to his knock.

Albus was clearly taken aback by Horace's sudden entrance, jumping slightly as he looked up from his Pensieve and having a little difficulty adjusting an expression which had clearly been filled with sour thoughts.

"Albus, I need to talk to you," declared Horace, more openly than he had spoken in years.

Albus' brow furrowed and he glanced back to whatever was in the Pensieve. "I see. I regret though, Horace, that I'm rather busy at the moment. Could we possibly reschedule this for later?"

Another moment of panic, but then Horace felt washed with blind bravery of a ridiculously Gryffindor-like nature. "No, I'm afraid not." He swallowed hard when he realised that he had Albus' full attention, but soldiered on. "This is something that I should have realised a while ago, and I feel foolish for not having done so. But the thing is, we both know that things are becoming more dangerous now. What with that poor girl being cursed and a Death Eater on every doorstep. And well... anything could happen... to any of us... at any time." A deep breath. "So I just wanted you to know that I-"

"Don't say it!" Albus interrupted. He had sprung from his seat across the room and was now bearing down upon Horace, threateningly, even maniacally.

"But I..." Horace was at a loss, gazing dumbly upwards. Surely there was some crazy misunderstanding? The air seemed to burn where their eyes met, so full of sadness and anger and loss.

Albus seemed to rein in his temper very suddenly. He looked away and repeated his words, this time very softly. "Don't say it. Please don't even think it."

Horace couldn't believe the scene before his eyes; it seemed surreal, devoid of sense. He cried the one thing that pushed into his mind. "But _why_ , Albus?" So much hurt was bubbling up inside him, then. Horace didn't understand why he was always pushed away, kept at arm's length - no matter how close he thought they had become, no matter how much they could offer to one another.

Albus turned right away and whispered his next words so softly it was a strain to hear them. "I can't. You mustn't. Please don't love me, my friend. I could never trust myself..."

Such words made no sense to Horace's ears, flying so much against that which he felt. "But _I_ trust you..." he said to Albus' rigid back, "You could mean everything to me. In some ways you do already." He reached out to put his hand on Albus' shoulder, only to have it harshly shrugged away.

"Well, don't." Albus swallowed sharply then turned on his heel and disappeared into a cloud of smoke, leaving Horace alone in the office with teary eyes and an aching heart.

***

How Horace returned to his chambers he did not remember; all was a blur of confusion and hurt. He was extremely glad that his teaching for the day was over; he couldn't face anyone just then, couldn't do anything. He collapsed into an armchair and pulled his arms across his chest, feeling utterly hollow.

Rejection tasted like bile in his throat, a taste that was far too familiar, evoking bitter memories of the same scene in practically the same room. Oh, how could he have thought that twenty years would change anything? How could his foolish old heart still be in love with Albus, after all that time, all that pain? _Nothing really changes in the world._ Was he doomed to forever love an unreachable, magnificent man who would never acknowledge his regard?

Horace felt both old and infirm, and young and naive. As he sat desolate, hugging himself, his eyes glazed and his mind wandered backwards to shining, happier times and their accompanying wounds that then seemed as fresh and sharp as the day they had been made.

Treasured memories flooded back. _That day so long ago, when Horace had taken Felix Felicis for the second time. Pure magic; pure wonder. Albus had agreed for that one day to behave as if they could be together, as if everything could be normal, as if the world wasn't about to just go wrong and as if his life could involve another person. It was the summer vacation at Hogwarts - no-one was around save for some of the professors and a skeleton-staff of house elves. The sun was bright and warming and they had lain together on a picnic-blanket at the side of the lake, watching the clouds overhead and listening to the sighing of the breeze in the branches as they talked and laughed and exchanged languid kisses. Later that evening they had shared a candlelit supper and made love passionately long into the night - their moans and cries and declarations audible to no-one, even as dawn crept onward and the illusion was soon to be broken. "I wish I could be yours, Horace," Albus had whispered between his sighs, "I would love to be yours."_

Horace addressed the Albus that haunted his thoughts; his dreams; the Albus that was peering up at him from an old picture frame on the mantelpiece. He was unsure whether he spoke the words aloud, but the meaning tumbled readily forth all the same. "Of course, we were lovers, Albus - lovers on and off for most of our lives, in fact, when one comes to think of it. It's perhaps a little daunting to put it in those terms. After all, who wants to be this old? Who wants to have spent so many years almost-nearly-never getting what one hopes for?"

Horace sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on a large spotted handkerchief. After a pause, he continued. "I always had to pretend that I felt less for you than I did - that it was just mutual fun, mutual convenience. If I gave too much away, you'd back away altogether - so convinced you were that there could never be any meaning, any _love_. I became practised in the art of pretence; being cool, acting as if I could take it or leave it when I truly wanted nothing more than to simply be with you, to lie with you, to laugh with you.”

"I learned the hard way not to be greedy; if I ever suggested that we were to see each other very often you'd disappear like a shot and I would wait with an heavy heart until you felt it would be safe to saunter back. To insulate myself from losing you, I made a show of taking other men - all perfectly nice, perfectly enjoyable, I'm sure - but such encounters always left me feeling empty and hurt when I really wanted to be with you.”

"Yet, you'd never allow it. You wanted the charade of merely-chums-with-benefits. You must have _known_ ; Slytherin though I am you can see through everyone. I understood though, that those were the tacit conditions. We could never speak of it; I had to act or suffer the consequences.”

"And I had to watch as your suitors came and left the castle. Charming, dashing and clever just like you, and you would entertain them, and smile and take them to your chambers." Horace chuckled bitterly as images of handsome, accomplished men paraded through his mind.”

"I remember in particular a glamourous dark-haired man from the Scuola Dandina in Italy - called Signor Vermerelli, if I recall. He was ostensibly visiting to discuss modern methods in the teaching of Transfiguration... but he caught your twinkling eye with his devilish Latinate orbs and I lay awake at night in tears imagining two lithe, beautiful bodies writhing together just metres away, auburn hair splashing together with the black. No wonder you didn't want a dumpy little man like me, I thought. And then I cried a little more and tried to console myself with crystallized pineapple.”

"I knew though, that you didn't laugh with him like we laughed together. He couldn't finish off your sentences; you didn't wake him from a nap with hippogriff finger-puppets on his back; you never plaited his mustache while he snoozed on the beach, and he had never brought you sherbet lemons on your birthday. You and he had not known each other since you were barely past boyhood and you had not endured the world together - not _together_ in the way I wished - but in the same cohort, the same business, the same mindset.”

Horace sniffed once again and his eyes began to well. "I might have come over as confident enough, I suppose - having lots of friends and contacts. But you were the one who was kind to me - really convinced me that it was all going to be all-right, made me smile, made me feel valued. Hell, even made me feel pretty - which was no mean feat really, considering I was as wide as I was tall, even at that age!

"We got on so well, Albus! We were compatible; we could have had a lovely life together. I never would have been clingy, you know that, I would have been very happy for you to go off traveling, meeting people. Hell, even sleeping with other boys, if you'd wanted! - But then you could have come home to me, and we would have embraced and been there for one another. We could have made a home together, Albus. You so loved the evenings we spent together chatting - you told me so - it could have been like that all of the time. I would have cherished you. I know that we were never truly equals, never will be, but I would have tried my best to be worthy of you. I loved you so much... 

"...I love you so much."

And with that, Horace pushed the photograph away and drew his knees to his chest, sobbing without self-restraint or the first time in several decades. As the present world seemed to be crashing down outside, Horace mourned his youth, his age and all of those missed opportunities. His love. 

The image of Albus merely looked on.

***

The next morning Horace felt strangely dry-eyed. He tried very hard not to think about anything save his work for the day - the mechanics of getting up, teaching, marking, having lunch - and it carried him through reasonably well; chances are that no-one noticed that anything was wrong.

He felt largely detached from the world, numb to it all. It was therefore with surprising calmness that Horace opened his study door to Albus at 5 o'clock that afternoon - most surprised to see him, but almost indifferent to what might next befall him feelings. What could be worse, after all? 

A good cry had been cathartic, Horace reasoned; he was, at least, able to face the man and reconstruct the time-worn charade of friendship without excessive sentiment. He'd pass off the previous evening as a misunderstanding, he decided - just the stress of the times, nothing to worry about, sorry for coming on all over-the-top and all that, old thing. 

Horace invited Albus in and closed the study door behind him. He was just rearranging his features into a affably neutral expression and was about to offer to make tea when Albus made an unexpected opening gambit: "I'd like to apologize for speaking so harshly yesterday evening."

"Oh, it was nothing," Horace said, trying to adopt an airy tone, "Serves me right for being so getting so carried away. Daft old fool, I am. Shouldn't be so sentimental."

"I don't think you're daft." Albus said that very firmly; an unassailable statement. Horace was unsure as to where this conversation was supposed to be going, so he stayed warily silent as Albus continued in that strong, matter-of-fact tone. "I find there is a lot of bravery in being honest about one's feelings. More than I possess, at least. I feel I owe you an explanation, my friend; an explanation that is long overdue. Not an excuse, though, by any means - I certainly do not pretend to have one of those."

"Oh?" asked Horace, cautiously.

Albus sighed, as if pondering where to start. He took a seat across from Horace and then began to speak, still in those measured, purposeful tones. "It would be wrong of me to pretend that I don't have a lot of responsibilities; things that are bigger than me; bigger than all of us. Many of those responsibilities I actively sought - I cannot pretend that they were thrust upon me, and I have no-one but myself to blame for the situation. However, I still willingly embrace them as I did the day I chose this path. I have being trying my very hardest for a long time to try to make this world a safer, fairer place. I'm not ashamed of these efforts. Indeed; I wish for them to succeed more than I wish anything for myself.”

"On the other hand, I _am_ ashamed of the way I behave at times - that is, me as a man - not me as a wizard, or me as a leader. This does nothing to nullify the fact, but I'd wager that the demands of wider problems makes me less sensitive than I should be to individual people. The kindness that I recommend to others is not always that which I practice.”

"While there are always exceptions, I think I do a reasonably good job at keeping myself in check when it comes to the students; to those who are directly in my care. They tend to see a benign old man most of the time, and I dearly hope they never have cause to perceive otherwise. However, it is with those who are closer to my own heart that I tend to falter; those who are friends; those with whom I share a history. Those who I seem to do nothing but disappoint, even though I wish I could change my own nature."

Horace remained quiet, taking in all that Albus had said but still not quite feeling as if he had got to the bottom of it all. It therefore came as a surprise when Albus switched to an almost throw-away tone and asked, "Do you remember Tom Riddle?"

That was certainly not the turn of conversation that Horace had hoped for. He bristled at once, suddenly feeling anxious and guilty, and so embarrassed about his past, and about that shoddily patched memory from just before Christmas when he was panicked and tipsy and sad...

He swallowed hard and looked at Albus sideways, knowing that it was time to face the music but wishing he could just disappear through the floor. He started talking in panic. "Why yes, but... look, I've already given you all I can remember about that. And I know you've been setting young Harry onto me about it. I really have never meant any harm, quite the opposite, in fact..."

Yet another surprise for Horace came just then, as Albus airily waved away his pleadings with a smile. "I daresay things will become clear in the fullness of time on that particular subject. But for the time-being, you misunderstand me, my friend. I don't mean to chastise you, I only ask you to remember what he was like when he was young and charming. How it felt to be given attention by someone so attractive; so potent."

Horace considered for a moment, taking his time to make completely sure that Albus wasn't about to get cross, and slowly deciding that going along with this conversation would probably be safer than risking a turn back to Horcruxes. "Well, he was clearly very talented," he finally conceded, "I'd be lying if I said he wasn't a good-looking young man, and he was very attentive - seemed pleased to have me as a House Master."

Albus nodded sagely. "I'm lead to believe that he could be very enchanting, also; bewitching; perhaps even seductive?"

"Well... yes. I mean no! Nothing _happened,_ that is. Nothing untoward, of that sort..."

"Of course, of course," Albus said quickly, "But can I ask you to imagine what it might have been like had you been seventeen years old and had found yourself the sole target of the Riddle charm and seduction? All of that intensity, all of that beauty directed just toward you, with no-one else around for miles. If he had told you, at that tender age that he had eyes for you and only for you; had made the offer that you could be partners in love and power for all eternity?"

"Errr... I don't know," Horace vacillated. However, he knew the answer very clearly in his soul: he wouldn't have stood a chance.

"Quite," said Albus decisively, even though no clear statement had been made. "And then imagine, when you had thoroughly lost your head and your heart to this golden boy, this poison angel, you suddenly and violently saw him for all that he really was - the evil, the cruelty, the murders. Imagine how that would feel."

"Well, bloody dreadful, obviously," Horace said with spirit, "More than dreadful. I wouldn't ever be able to fall in love again, I wager, after a thing like that. Or at least I wouldn't let myself."

Albus nodded gravely, with a sadness in his eyes that Horace had rarely seen there before. "Well, that, my friend, is pretty much the story that I have to tell."

Horace blinked in confusion at that. "What, you? And Riddle?!"

"No, not Tom Riddle," replied Albus, "But the one who came before him and was in many ways just as terrible. Gellert Grindelwald." He paused to allow that information to filter through and the shock to register on Horace's face. "I was besotted. We were going to rule the world together - only I was blind to the fact that the means he had in mind were unspeakably horrid. This all happened before I came to train in Paris - before you and I met. I spent a very, very long time denying what had happened to myself, and even longer hating myself thereafter with almost as much passion as there can be in love.”

"When I finally found my guts and guile and went to stop him, it was truly far too late. Being the hero-who-defeated-Grindelwald has always felt a bitter lie to me. I and I alone know how I could and should have acted so many years before I did."

A heavy silence hung in the room as that revelation spiraled between them. "I... I... never would have guessed..." said Horace weakly, "It seems so unlikely. What with you being..." He trailed off, unsure as to quite how to complete that sentence.

"I have never forgiven myself for that association, and until now, I have never told the truth about it to another soul. My heart died long ago, Horace. I am so, so sorry." 

Albus bowed his head and left the room calmly, closing the study door gently behind him. Horace remained alone, still and quiet, locked within his thoughts.

*****

**March**

Poison. In his own rooms. Just minutes had elapsed since the red-headed boy - Roger, was it? - had been convulsing and foaming at the mouth, and Horace felt decidedly queasy. It was a jolly good job that young Harry was so fleet of foot; Horace had thought of using a bezoar himself, of course, the young man had just dashed to the ingredients supplies more quickly. It _was_ marvellous to have such a talented boy as a pupil, he mused.

Horace quickly dealt with the aftermath, putting the room back in order and disposing of the offending bottles of mead with a Neutralizing Solution and then a vanishing charm. He had probably dealt with worse in his time; it wasn't the poison itself that perturbed him though, more the circumstances of its arrival. And the fact that those bottles had been intended as a present for Albus.

Circumstances between he and Albus hadn't exactly been strained over the past six weeks - more like non-existent. It had taken Horace a long time to ponder the other man's confession - lurching between aghast horror and meditative acceptance. Indeed, as time went on the silent inevitability of it all had pressed more deeply onto his mind.

Horace's past featured many years spent regretting the fact that Albus always remained at arm's length, unwilling to share a closeness where one so clearly could have developed. He had alternated between blaming his own inadequacies and shortcomings for that state of affairs and doing his very best not to think about it at all, lest he go mad. The idea that a dark secret from even before their time in Paris had hovered over so many decades had never occurred to Horace and he found it at once haunting and strangely comforting. A _fait accompli_ perhaps even had some romantic tragedy to it - not something that he, personally, had done wrong.

He was unsure whether Albus had purposefully stayed out of his way since that January evening, or whether the man was simply so busy he hadn't given conversations with Horace - or lack thereof - a moment's thought. Horace had found himself wondering about that over and over again, and then habitually berated himself for being quite so intolerably mopey. 

In the best case scenario, Horace supposed that Albus was trying to be tactful - to leave the quaffle in his court, as it were. Which of course had led to endless agonizing about what he should do next. What did he want to do next? What _could_ he do next?

When put in those terms, the choices available seemed remarkably scant. Albus had pretty much given a cast-iron guarantee that he was to remain as emotionally forthcoming as the giant squid until his dying day. He was damaged, he said; incomplete; unable to partake in matters of the heart. 

This left Horace with the choices of a friendship as limited and maddening as always, or nothing whatsoever. He remembered perfectly what the latter of those two options felt like - having left Hogwarts when his heart was filled with tiredness and hurt some fifteen years previously in order to make a life _senza_ Dumbledore. On reflection, Horace thought acidly, one might as well have tried making a life _senza_ oxygen. There was no way that having returned, having spent so many happy, intimate evenings with Albus over elf-made wine and dinner that he could possibly give all that up. His throat constricted at the very thought.

Horace had therefore slowly realised that - Grindelwald or no - nothing from his perspective had actually changed. That in itself was pretty frustrating, and at the same time almost... _now what was the word?_... Almost _honourable?_ That his regard should be constant even in the face of circumstances beyond his control and ongoing rejection was so Gryffindorish, Horace didn't know whether to feel shamefaced or absurdly proud. Like the doomed heroine of a Muggle opera he would stand steadfastly by... Donna Elvira, Madama Butterfly, Santuzza... _Horatio Slughornio - now starring in a twelve-act tragedy of hopeless love..._

When not indulging in such elaborate imaginings, Horace had come quite calmly to the decision to try to thaw the Dumbledore straits once more. Hence, the purchase of a case of finest oak-matured mead from the Dordogne - not at all a leftover from Christmas as he had bluffed to the children - and the intention to extend an invitation to dinner as soon as he had mustered the nerve to do so.

That nerve, however, seemed a long time in coming. The mead had sat unopened in his study for nearly three weeks before the unfortunate ginger-headed boy suffered its effects - and that brought Horace back in a neatly circular fashion to his prime worry of that day. Poison, in his own rooms, which he had very nearly given to Albus.

Some while after the cleanup operation was complete and Horace had tried to settle to some marking, a brisk knock sounded on his study door.

"Come in," he called, while feeling that he had experienced enough unwanted excitement that day already. 

In walked Minerva, wearing an expression of concern beneath her pointed hat and equally pointed eyebrows. "Young Mr. Weasley seems to have stabilized, but Poppy thinks it will be some time before he comes to. I therefore need to ask you exactly what happened."

"Well, there isn't much to tell, really," started Horace, "One minute we were all sitting about having a nice chat - after I'd given young Ralph-"

"-Ron."

"Quite. After I've given young _Ronald_ the first antidote-"

"The _first_ antidote?!"

"Yes, yes, nothing to worry about, just a standard Clarity Draught," replied Horace, slightly annoyed. "But as I was saying, the whole thing came without warning. Who was to know that a straightforward bottle of mead was really going to contain such a vicious poison?!"

Minerva pursed her lips slightly but otherwise made little reaction. "Who, indeed..." she said, letting the comment trail away ominously. After a heavy pause, Minerva continued in her usual businesslike tones. "Now, Harry Potter informs me that the bottle in question was actually intended as a present for Albus. Is this true?"

"Why yes, but..."

"Mmm." She narrowed her eyes and then took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to plunge into pretty unpleasant water. "You and he have been having _difficulties_ of late, I am told - or at least it is possible to infer that from the fact that you haven't shared supper since the beginning of term. Might it not be terribly tempting to seek revenge for all that trouble? One poisoned bottle in a case would do it, wouldn't it? Just a nuisance if one were to pick the wrong one by accident when entertaining some children..."

Horace took a second to cotton on to what was being implied, but then gasped, genuinely open-mouthed. "Oh, no. Oh, _No!_ You can't think for a moment that I was intending to... that I would have even dreamed of... I give you my word here and now that I would never, ever, even contemplate..." He trailed off, at a loss for words.

Minerva scrutinized Horace's shocked reaction and he felt tendrils of legilimency lapping at the edges of his mind. A moment later, she nodded curtly and her icy disposition melted within seconds. "I believe you. My apologies, Horace; they all thought that someone had to make sure, and I was put forward as the niffler, as it were."

"Well, I should jolly well think so too," he said, rather affronted, and gathering his smoking-jacket about him. "The very idea, indeed... that I would... Well!" Another unpleasant thought followed swiftly on the heels of the previous one, causing Horace to slow down and fix Minerva with his gaze. "When you said 'they,' Minerva... you don't mean that Albus himself suspected that as well, do you?"

"No, I don't. As far as I know Albus isn't at Hogwarts today, and has been away since yesterday afternoon. That particular theory was mainly generated by the Weasley family - who are, admittedly rather highly strung at present." Minerva then regarded Horace shrewdly once more, but this time without suspicion, more a warm type of curiosity. "On the subject of Albus, would you mind if I gave you an opinion? It seems a little incongruous on the heels of what I have just asked, but I very much hope you'll be willing to overlook that, Horace?"

"Very well, Minnie, my dear, go ahead." Horace felt somewhat mollified by then. It seemed very plausible that the whole line of inquiry had been generated by Weasley hot-air, and he did grudgingly accept that in times of strife it was best to check every possible explanation. Besides, he was at his weakest when any tidbit regarding Albus was on offer, so was then likely to agree to most things to encourage Minerva to proceed.

She drew a deep breath. "Now, I don't know what has or has not been going on between the two of you of late - and I do know it's none of my business. However, it is obvious enough that you haven't been yourself since the middle of January, Horace, and this tallies very neatly with the observation that cosy dinners _à deux_ with the Headmaster came to an abrupt stop at that time as well. Albus bears his feelings very tightly - as I'm sure you know - but I wager I've seen rather more sadness than usual about him ever since then, also.

"I've been reflecting on something I said, and even though I meant well, I'm not certain it was the right time or the right sentiment." Minerva paused, perhaps waiting to see whether she had pushed too far. However, when no objection came, she continued in a forthright tone. "So, you know what I advised before Christmas, Horace? About not going near Albus. Well, I've changed my mind. Go near him; be there there for him; involve yourself with him. It wasn't fair of me to imply that he, of all people, isn't allowed a little comfort, and I daresay that you'd be cheered by his _company_ as well." She finished with a flourish, clearly hoping to have imparted some sense of enthusiasm into a potential suitor.

It therefore deflated Minerva's countenance when Horace replied, "Oh, he doesn't want _me,_ " in a glum and dismissive tone.

"I'd wager that not to be true," she countered, "- Whatever you might have been told. On the other hand, Albus thinks that he can't have you. Perhaps he is right in that, and if so, I'm certainly not one to judge. But if he is wrong, let him feel that, however briefly. He _is_ human, just like the rest of us. However adeptly he may bear his burdens alone, there is bound to come a time when they could become too much, and I'm sure we would all feel very sad if that time were to be missed."

_...However briefly...If that time were to be missed..._ Minerva's words echoed in Horace's ears, drowning out the advice she was giving him in favour of something else, something far more ominous...

Horace regarded Minerva shrewdly, wondering upon her change of heart, her sudden urgency to make all these thoughts known. The world seemed to have switched to half-speed and his mouth felt strangely dry. "You know something, don't you?" Horace uttered, "Something bad. Something about Albus." 

Minerva clasped her hands together and squeezed them tightly. All of a sudden, she didn't meet his gaze. "There is something I suspect; yes. But to say that I _know_ would be incorrect." She paused once more, and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "You are aware that Severus and I are... close. I don't think I'd be betraying any confidences by saying that Severus had to tend an injury for Albus over the summer. I don't know for certain - Severus wouldn't say - but I have the feeling that it is an injury from which he will not fully recover."

The cogs in Horace's mind clicked sickeningly into place. "His poor hand! That's what you mean, isn't it?"

"As I said, I don't know. It doesn't seem to be getting any better though, does it?"

Horace didn't reply, but nodded grimly, staring off somewhere in the direction of the door. He felt sick to the stomach. Imminent danger was one thing - the type hinted at darkly by Severus himself just after Christmas - but this sense of morbid inevitability was too much to bear.

Somewhat blankly, Horace registered that Minerva had put her arm about his shoulder. "Don't stop loving him, Horace," she whispered, "He needs you."

*****

**April**

Cracking his eyes open painfully at the light, Horace awoke with the most appalling hangover he had suffered since Paris, or perhaps even, ever. His head was pounding and he felt pretty nauseous, and he had not the slightest clue as to what had put him in such a state. Upon further, tentative investigation, he found himself in his own bed - thankfully enough - with pyjamas on back-to-front and most of the contents of his accessories drawer strewn around the room, as if someone had been trying to find a particular cravat in a hurry. 

There were also some small glass bottles on his bedside table filled with a glutinous yellow liquid. They looked vaguely familiar, and Horace had a nagging sense that the contents might be valuable, but he really didn't want to think too deeply about what may or may not have happened the previous evening - not when it felt as if a wild hippogriff had taken up residence in his skull and was petitioning for release.

After a good few moments of lying perfectly still and trying to focus on the ceiling, Horace dared an attempt at standing up and stumbling across the room to find a potion that might help his condition. He knocked over several bottles with clumsy hands but finally located a Sobering Solution and gulped it down in one go. The world swum in and out of focus but finally arrived in place, with all of the room's fixtures and fittings at a good, solid rate of one-copy-per-piece. 

Blinking a few times, just to make sure that he was cured, Horace then realized that he was absolutely starving. The clock showed that it was way past breakfast time - and lunch time, for that matter - so he decided to get quickly dressed and make his way down to the kitchens in person.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Horace emerged from a painting of an Ogre's brunch-spread holding a tray that was positively groaning with sausages, eggs, bacon, croissants and jam - and that was just for starters. He was making a bee-line back to his rooms (quietly glad that he knew a shortcut without too many stairs) when who should arrive in the kitchen corridor, but Albus Dumbledore.

Horace slowed, habitually feeling rather uncomfortable. This had been the case every time he had seen Albus since that fateful January evening, and each time they had exchanged nothing more than a cursory, 'good morning’.

He had spent a long time mulling over Minerva's words - and indeed was still doing so - but in usual cowardly fashion, had not actually done anything about it; no words, no gestures, no decisions. It was not in Horace's nature to stick his rather wide neck out into dangerous places, and it must have been this sense of self-preservation that had kept relations between he and Albus at nothing more than a polite nod where necessary for the best part of five months, even when his better sense and softer feelings implored otherwise.

On this particular day, however, Horace observed Albus walking smoothly along the corridor, and suddenly felt much better about the prospect of talking to him. It was almost as if something had happened to change the situation in his favour; mysteriously, as if he could then hold his head up high; absurdly enough, as if he had finally done something to _help_.

Albus drew closer and looked set to nod curtly and carry on by. Horace, however, impulsively stepped into his path and called, "Albus, dear man! How are you?"

Albus blinked slightly and the corners of his mouth curved in what seemed like a private smile – and which quickly became an outward greeting. "Much improved, Horace, thank you. And how are you? I see some sustenance is in order." He motioned towards Horace's impressively-piled tray.

"Oh yes - just a little something to tide me over until supper." Then an idea struck. "I say, would you like to come over for supper this evening? I'll see if I can get hold of another one of those stuffed guinea-fowl..."

Albus considered for a moment and then smiled warmly. "Thank you very much, I should enjoy that."

"Super! See you at eight o' clock, then." 

Horace toddled on past, keen to get to a place where he could make inroads into the sausage and bacon. It was only when he had appeased his famishment that he realized that he had finally done it. 

After all of those tortured evenings speculating about Albus, about himself, about everything that Minerva had said, he had made a step toward friendship once more. If his silly old heart was singing just a little too much at the prospect, he did his best to ignore it.

*****

**June - 16th**

As the weeks crept on, Horace heeded Minerva's words well, and as soon as the Scottish summer inched its way forth from spring, so did the warmth between Albus and Horace little by little return - a slow and gentle thaw that was nevertheless constant and true.

Their meetings had fallen into an easy pattern - usually Tuesdays in Horace's rooms and Fridays in Albus'. They never mentioned what Albus had confessed about his past, of course - as they had never spoken of so many things through the years - but it seemed to Horace that a cloud had somehow lifted. Albus seemed more relaxed in his company, perhaps less on-guard. When they were together behind closed doors, Albus had the countenance of a man whom at last had nothing to hide and was very grateful for that fact. Perhaps it was a luxury that he had never before allowed himself? After all, what was it truly like to be Albus Dumbledore? Wearing so many guises at once was bound to become a strain - the genius, the protector, the politician, the fighter, the lover.... 

Horace noticed that when Albus was exhausted he didn't try to hide it as he had seemed to before; when he thought of something silly to say, there was no hesitation before the comment tumbled forth. This all made Horace almost irrationally happy, and he did he very best to forget the dark thoughts and implications that hovered about his mind; he refused to dwell upon ideas of death and despair when he could treasure each unguarded moment in Albus' company.

In addition, Horace noticed that Albus seemed less ferociously busy than he had before - the very fact that they were able to meet so frequently was surely testament to that. It would be wrong to say that he seemed _relaxed_ \- far from it, indeed - but perhaps as if he had furiously been preparing for something and could now sit back and wait for it to happen - a great ending, or indeed, perhaps a grand beginning.

It was on one such evening in mid-June that the pair sat in Albus' drawing room, leaning back in winged chairs from a table that displayed the ruins of a fine dinner.

"Very fine syllabub, don't you think?" Horace enthused.

"Oh yes, very much. But as I recall, in Paris they made it with rather more egg and slightly less lemon?"

"Less lemon? Surely, more - this being the caramelized version, after all, which requires a certain piquancy to counterbalance the sweetness." Horace said that pretty firmly, but Albus was adamant.

"No, definitely _plus du citron_ as our friends at Beauxbatons would say! Look-" Albus took out his wand and performed a refilling charm upon the dessert dishes, "Just try this version - you'll see my point, I'm sure."

Horace went to retrieve his spoon, but found that even he couldn't face the thought of yet more food so soon after dinner. He leaned back again, clutching his ample belly and eyeing his waistcoat buttons, which looked in serious danger of structural failure. "No, I couldn't possibly, I'm afraid - full to the brim! I'll have to take your word for it."

Albus, however, had nearly polished off another bowlful. "I don't believe it! The famous Horace Slughorn, defeated by dessert? What is the world coming to?" Clearly pleased with himself, Albus pushed away the empty bowl and started eyeing Horace's spurned syllabub.

"Mmph," stated Horace, mock-offended. "I honestly don't know where you put it, though, Albus. Don't you actually eat other than on Tuesdays and Fridays? No, that can't be true - because I've seen you have lunch in hall when you're at Hogwarts. But honestly, man - nibbling sweets all day long and enjoying triple-dessert, and you still have the body of a whippet!" At that point, Horace felt himself rather inconveniently flush all over as the crystal-clear image of Albus practically naked flashed into his mind. Those legs! That stomach! That amazing arse! He crossed his legs instinctively and attempted to bluster on. "Not bloody fair, I say. I swear I indulge less than you do, and I'm hardly the sveltest gazelle in the jungle, now am I?"

Albus smiled kindly. "That may or may not be true... but I do wish I had your body, Sluggy."

Horace made another humphing noise. "Most droll, Albus. You're welcome to some - I have plenty spare." Horace lifted up his huge belly with both hands to make the point.

"That wasn't an attempt at comedy, actually." Albus smiled again, but this time his eyes focussed somewhere in the middle distance and he let out a soft, reflective sigh. "It sounds silly, but - indulge me for a moment if you don't mind... You've teased enough about me still looking all stringy and what-have-you at this age. Well, it really is nothing special. It's just a consequence of running around after problem after problem for the last century - constant adrenaline and magic that's too ambitious to be performed on a regular basis does this to one. I couldn't afford to be any less fit than I am, and even now something's getting the better of me - I'm not as strong as I should be." He sighed deeply. "I sometimes wish that I could just stop it all and settle down and get really comfortable and really fat and have someone to share it all with..."

Horace was now sitting up straight and attending fully to Albus' unexpectedly serious turn of conversation. He suddenly felt all tense, as if a cage of pixies had been released in his stomach and were trying to fight their way to his throat. "Someone, eh?" he asked. Horace tried to make that sound nonchalant, but he knew that he had failed in the attempt. His heart was beating at about three times its usual rate and he found he couldn't meet Albus' gaze.

A long moment stretched between them. Suddenly, Horace became acutely aware of the back of his hand as it rested upon the table, because it had been covered by a warm palm and long, elegant fingers. "Yes Sluggy; with someone. To be precise, with you."

Their eyes met and it was just like being young again; yearning and meaning dancing in the air amidst their gazes and the heavy air of awkwardness pressing upon their silent tongues.

"I wish I could change everything ghastly that's happening," said Albus, sadly, "I sometimes wish I could just leave it all to go and hang - and to make the life that I should have made with you, all of those years ago."

Horace merely stared; transfixed with the moment, with Albus. He was almost unwilling to believe what his treacherous ears had heard and felt alternately overcome with elation at the revelation and with devastation at the sad truth.

And then - Horace knew that it was crazy but he didn't care. He stood up suddenly and crossed the short distance between himself and Albus, pressing their lips together with the urgency that comes of a snatched moment in an otherwise impossible scheme. Albus was deathly still at first - rigid, resistant in his better sense - but he too quickly melted into a furnace of passionate mouths and grasping limbs - wrapping, stroking and holding as lips massaged lips and tongue entwined with tongue. It seemed that the wonderful man of pure fire and spirit was human, after all.

After a moment Horace realised that Albus was standing up and - still locked as they were in a fierce embrace - he was inching them toward the door of his bedchamber. If it were possible for Horace's heart to have beaten any faster, it would have done just then. 

As they stumbled slowly away from the table, Horace delighted in the feel of Albus' wiry, strong body pressed against his own, the sensation of Albus' tongue caressing his lips, the grasp of Albus' hands at his robes, as his own fingers filled with deep velvet of Albus' vestments. His mind was overcome with all of these things and it came as a slight shock when his knees bumped against the side of the enormous four-poster bed, causing him to sit down heavily and the contact to be broken.

They stared at one another seriously for a moment, breath coming in short pants and lips reddened and glistening from the kiss.

"Are you certain..." started Albus, with the expression of a man who was desperately trying to act responsibly, despite himself.

"Oh, Albus... I've wanted this... I've wanted _you_... for so long..." Horace gazed up imploringly, arms outstretched. Surely the moment could not be snatched away so cruelly? Not now?

Another seemingly endless silence stretched onward. Finally, Albus nodded - calmly and resolutely - and then, almost in slow-motion, he bent down and planted a gentle, tender kiss upon Horace's lips. "I, also."

Albus sat down next to Horace, and very soon they were embracing and kissing once more - only this time with more leisure. They pulled at the fastenings of each other's voluminous outer robes - which were making any sort of caress nearly impossible - and those bulky garments were soon consigned to a pile on the floor. Horace then felt the thrill of Albus' form under his fingers, and the heat of Albus' hands through his own clothes.

It had been a very long time since Horace had engaged in any such activity, but he was certainly not unpracticed. He therefore remembered very firmly that such things were by far best accomplished in the centre of a nice, comfortable bed, with irritating pieces of clothing fully banished from the area. It was thus with a certain air of smugness that Horace gently broke the kiss and whispered, "Be naked for me, my dear."

Albus smiled once more and raised his eyebrows. "If you insist."

"Oh, I do. I do!" Horace turned around and clambered fully onto the bed, taking up a position on one side and gazing at Albus' tousled form lustfully. Albus quickly obliged his request, making short work of his inner robes and footwear and walking to Horace's side clad only in his underwear, a long, snowy beard and a disbelieving grin. 

"Oho! Simply marvellous! What a specimen - look at those muscles!" Horace was practically drooling, and the sight of Albus unclad certainly added potency to his already-urgent erection. 

"Oh, honestly!" said Albus, in mock-accusation, "You'll make me blush. And anyway, as I said, I'd rather have the chance to get a bit plump."

Horace chuckled, then mused on what his friend had said. "You'd actually look rather cute with a pot-belly, Alby. Give me a twirl - yes, that's it. Beautiful! You'd never catch up with me, of course, but a little round middle filled up with sweets would suit you." Albus smiled and slipped beneath the covers. "Having said that, it would be dashed rude of me not to appreciate the current format of things, what?" Horace grinned cheekily and lifted the duvet to reveal Albus' naked torso - the planes of his pectoral muscles and rosy nipples accentuated by the soft light, tapering down into that almost impossibly toned stomach. Horace stroked his hand from shoulder to hip, savouring the firnmess and the way that Albus squirmed slightly under his lingering touch. "Oh, yes... Oh, yes..."

Albus sighed in pleasure and a little chord of tension within him seemed to break with each caress. Horace's hands explored his chest, his arms, his legs and Albus allowed his eyes to flutter shut, dreamy little sounds escaping from between his lips. After a few moments, Horace could see that his lover's _need,_ as it were, was becoming as great as his own so he went to remove Albus' underwear...

"Oh no - not yet," said Albus all of a sudden. "Your turn." As quick as a snitch Albus untangled himself from the duvet and pounced upon Horace, straddling him and pinning him to the bed.

From Horace's perspective, that was... unexpected. Happy as he was to be there with Albus, he suddenly felt terribly shy; unsure of himself. The odd naughty show at the theatre aside, it _had_ been a very long time. 

Merlin, he couldn't even remember when he had last... And besides, in the past couple of decades he had been far more accustomed to being in control of these situations, calling the shots and choosing exactly where everyone's hands got to wander, and where they didn't. He suddenly felt dreadfully out of his depth.

Albus began to undo the buttons of his inner robes and Horace's overexcited brain began to fully panic. He had never counted himself a looker, but now he just felt ridiculous, he thought; perhaps this was all a terrible mistake. He felt so heavy and awkward, arms frozen ineffectually at his sides, and flinching as the waistband of his corduroy trousers dug uncomfortably into his over-full belly. He hadn't had this pair made so _very_ long ago, he thought in a tiny part of his mind that was not occupied with the tall, unbearably attractive man before him - surely he wasn't putting on weight _that_ quickly?

In a final burst of worry, Horace blurted out, "I'd fully understand if you decided not to, Albus, old thing. You know, I'm practically spherical, and all that..."

"Don't be silly!" Albus replied, sitting back on his heels with a calm smile. He leaned over to Horace's face, nuzzling gently at his jawline. "I think you're simply delightful, spherical or no. Now, please relax, my dear." Long, graceful fingers came to rest at Horace's cravat, and he felt every slide of fabric as the knot was slowly, sensually untied and his neck was bared to Albus' hot trail of kisses. He hissed in pleasure, and then barely noticed as the buttons of his shirt were undone and the garment vanished from his arms and back - along with his shoes and socks.

Warm, gentle palms played across his chest and then Albus' hands came to rest at the waistband of Horace's trousers. Following some grappling with the buttons they finally came loose and Albus helped them down Horace's legs to the floor. With the contact of Albus' touch briefly broken, Horace felt a strange mixture of relief at having the pinch around his middle eased when he was so breathless, and a heightened anxiety at being even more on show. As if to calm his nerves, however, Albus stroked gently at the red mark around Horace's middle and pressed a soft kiss to the skin there.

Meanwhile Horace looked down at his big pink body and felt another wave of doubt at this whole business. Was his belly really _that_ enormous? He hadn't really looked in the mirror for ages but... my goodness. How could anyone possibly find him attractive?! He pulled at the blankets in an attempt to cover himself up, and muttered, "Really old thing, there's no need. I know I look like a beached whale."

Albus however prevented his attempts at disguise by swatting away the duvet with a smile and a sneaky piece of wandless magic. "Well, you'll just have to take my word for it then: I like you very much - very much indeed. I especially like seeing you as nature intended as it happens, so you'll just have to get used to being admired!" As if to make his point, Albus made a trail of kisses all the way across Horace's tummy that left a tingling heat in their wake. "You're round and soft and lovely. Simply edible, in fact, and I can't wait to have my wicked way with you!"

Knowing Albus Dumbledore as he did, it would have been easy enough for Horace to dismiss that assurance as mere words, divorced from meaning. However, there was something in that twinkling blue visage that convinced him the words were genuine. The intense gaze that raked across his form was not just enthusiastic, it was downright _lascivious!_

Witnessing that heated expression on Albus' face was enough to make Horace throw caution to the wind. With reticence gone, sparks of heat and anticipation coursed through his veins and he suddenly felt very aroused indeed. 

He found his own lips curving broadly, and beckoned Albus into outstretched arms. "Jolly good, then, my friend. Let us see the stars tonight!"

Albus pounced onto Horace and a spark of electricity hit them both as their hardnesses rubbed together through layers of underwear. Horace moaned as Albus gyrated his hips to prolong the contact, darkly whispering, "I couldn't agree more, my dear," and their mouths and hands very soon found one another once more.

It was utterly exquisite - having Albus lay atop him, kissing and caressing so passionately - but it soon became clear that both men wanted more. Therefore Albus broke away and straddled Horace once again, this time licking his way downwards - planting kisses upon a bared throat and worrying pink, pert nipples between his teeth to elicit cries of agonized ecstasy. 

Clearly pleased with himself, Albus turned his attention to Horace's belly, and alternated his kisses with playful words. "This tummy of yours is a precious artefact, you know, my dear. Every ounce is composed of something expensive." He nibbled just below Horace's chest. "This piece here is foie gras from near Limoges.... and this bit..." He licked just below the navel, "is finest chocolate from a little boutique on the Franco-Belgian border."

In normal circumstances, Horace would have been appreciative of that sort of comedy. However, he found he couldn't laugh because his brain was completely clouded by the almost wickedly arousing sensations of Albus' lips and hands and tongue all over his body. He had no idea that he was so sensitive; there were seemingly billions of nerve-endings in his chest and tummy and thighs alone, all being set alight by Albus' teasing, maddening touch. He found himself able to utter just one syllable, but at least it communicated exactly how he felt just then. "More... please, more..."

"I thought you'd never ask," said Albus happily. With a smooth piece of wandless magic he caused both of their pieces of underwear to disappear, and they gazed upon each other appreciatively and with unbridled anticipation. Horace reached out just as Albus' hand closed reciprocally around his erection; Albus' cock felt magnificent in his grasp - long and thick and hard, just as he remembered it to be - and the sensation of those slender, clever fingers about his own not-inconsiderable hardness was almost too much pleasure to bear.

It would have been all too easy to reach a conclusion just like that, but Horace knew that he wanted something yet more intense. Therefore, he let go and laid back down, giving Albus a silent signal that he knew would be understood.

With other partners - casual fun, a half-hearted romance, even the occasional ex-student - Horace had been happy to take either role in intimate proceedings. But with Albus there no question; there never had been. The man was pure fire and magic, and the most Horace could possibly do at that point was to lie back and tremble with anticipation as Albus spread open his legs and settled between them.

A ghostly, teasing finger caressed Horace's ample inner thigh, and soon that finger was joined by a wicked tongue and teeth, lapping and nibbling at the flesh and climbing ever higher until Horace found the suspense, the maddening desire to be touched again _there_ almost unbearable. Yet there was nothing that he could do about it, he thought, exalting in the delicious submissiveness he had assumed as Albus made an equally arousing path along his other leg - he would just have to quiver and wait.

Horace reflected that he felt suddenly and uncannily just like a young virgin - still and blushing as he lay spread-eagled upon the bed, and tingling from the charms he had just cast in preparation and _unbelievably_ tight. It really had been a long time.

On that note, a sobering thought occurred to him. "You will be gentle, old thing? Not quite in practice, you know..."

Albus looked up. "Of course," he replied, seriously and kindly.

However, any anxieties that may have been milling around in Horace's brain were dismissed in short order by a lavish swipe of Albus' tongue across his perineum, lapping gently at the underside of his tensed balls.

"Oh gods!" cried Horace in mixed surprise and delight, and then he became unable to form words altogether as a warm, skilled mouth took him deeply inside. 

It would have been all too easy to orgasm just then, in Albus' delightful mouth, as wet lips travelled up and down his shaft and a wickedly talented tongue swirled about his tip. But Horace once again decided he wanted something more. This was just a snatched moment, and as much as what Albus was doing was devilishly good, Horace wanted to give pleasure as well as receive it; to feel close as possible to this amazing man who was the true apple of his eye. In a snatched breath, and displaying more self-control than he was ever able when faced with a box of crystallized pineapple, Horace asked Albus to stop.

"I want to feel you now, Alby... inside of me."

A very broad smile formed atop that snowy beard, and Albus replied, "Your wish is my command, my dear."

Albus sat back on his heels and either summoned or conjured a small pot of lubricant (Horace's mind was too clouded by lust to tell which), and very soon Horace felt a fingertip lightly massaging his entrance. This went on for a good few moments; gentle, meticulous care, all accompanied by caresses all over Horace's body that made his skin tingle and a beautiful sense of combined relaxation and arousal pool in his belly. It felt almost preposterous that Albus was taking so much trouble, going so slowly when they were both old and world-weary, but something about it made Horace's heart sing with joy - he felt cherished, appreciated.

After a minute or two, Albus pushed a fingertip gently inside. A bolt of sensation coursed through Horace's body - a tantalizing hint of what was to come - and he tensed again instinctively.

"Gosh, you _are_ tight, my dear," said Albus admiringly, but that observation didn't stop him from easing a second finger inside and curling them slightly as he moved.

The white-hot bolt of pleasure that hit Horace when Albus touched his prostrate was enough to make him shout aloud. He had forgotten it was possible to feel that wonderful, and he was at once greedy for the chance to reach a mind-blowing climax and for the feeling never, ever to stop. He began to moan deeply and rock backwards and forwards, seeking more; a deeper connection.

Albus smiled as his lover writhed unabashed upon the bedclothes and Horace felt him redouble his efforts to stroke that special place, and then... nothing at all. Horace cracked his eyes open at the sudden loss of contact but was instead given the treat of seeing Albus coat himself liberally with lubricant.

"Come to me," breathed Horace, and Albus quickly obliged. Horace felt his lover's tip tantalizingly graze across his entrance, and then in one sure motion, slide smoothly inside while leaning down to kiss Horace lavishly.

When they were fully joined together, Albus pulled back and they gazed at one another with wide eyes and open hearts. Horace felt, for the first time he could remember, complete. The wonderful feeling of Albus inside him was at last a proper expression of the ache in his soul; the love he felt. 

These sentiments passed between them without the need for words, and afterwards both Horace and Albus smiled broadly, knowing that the time for pleasure had arrived. Albus pressed himself upwards to gain better leverage and slid out - then back in - establishing a delicious rhythm. Horace groaned in appreciation, spreading his legs even further apart to afford Albus better access... and suddenly his vision was shot to pieces by white lights as an unbelievable rush of sensation surged deep within him, making him groan loudly and seemingly loose the ability to think of anything other than Albus.

With ragged gulps of air, the minutes passed and Albus continued his strokes - always powerful, aim forever true. The two of them could barely breathe as their joining continued, becoming ever more aroused, ever more frenzied...

... And just when Horace felt he could stand the ecstasy no longer, he felt Albus' hand wrap around his straining, desperate hardness. 

That, in combination with Albus' magnificent cock inside him, massaging his prostrate with every stroke, was enough to send Horace teetering toward that shining edge... and then crashing over it - as his orgasm hit with the force of at least fifty of the climaxes he had previously known.

Horace cried out and tensed all over as he came. A second later, Albus joined him at the very height of bliss, rigid as he climaxed with his lover, emptying deeply inside him.

It took an almost implausibly long period of time before either of them seemed able to speak or to move. Slowly, very slowly, Albus withdrew and muttered a cleaning charm over them both as he settled to lay at Horace's side. "Thank you," he said, simply, and pressed a kiss to Horace's lips.

Horace turned onto his side to face his lover and pulled the duvet over them both. "No, thank _you_ ," he replied, returning the kiss. They lay like that, tired and sated, for a few minutes, but unavoidably the consequences and questions as to what might next happen began to press at Horace's mind. "Can I stay here - with you, overnight?" he asked, dreading that the answer might be no.

"I would like that very much," replied Albus, to Horace's great relief. Albus' brow then furrowed a little, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to say something else.

"What is it?" asked Horace, quietly.

Albus paused but then answered. "I will very much enjoy waking with you tomorrow morning. That will be very special to me. But then I must go on a journey which is likely to be perilous."

Horace's heart constricted at those words. All of his worries flooded back - harsh and painful, and pressing on his emotions all the more vividly now that he and Albus had just been so close. He could have asked Albus questions - questions about the journey, about Severus Snape, about his poor blackened hand - and he felt that, for the first time, Albus would probably have answered them all. 

However, Horace decided not to. He didn't necessarily want those answers; there was no guarantee that he could cope with what the truth might hold. He just wanted to hold Albus, to treasure this time with Albus - and amazingly enough, to feel treasured back.

Therefore, Horace merely drew his lover into his arms, stroking his white, silky hair. "It _can_ be different, you know, Alby. We can make it different. Just - please, come back to me."

Albus returned the embrace, seeming to almost burrow into Horace's comforting touch. "I shall do my very best to... my love. My only love."

*****

**June - 17th**

Albus was dead. 

That sentence might only contain three words, but Horace found it’s myriad implications utterly incomprehensible; a cruel trick played in a foreign language that nevertheless left him feeling sickened and empty.

He felt old, tired, useless, scared, rudderless.

It was the middle of the night and Horace sat wearing a dressing gown in the staff common room. People kept entering and leaving the room on their way to and from the infirmary; apparently some of their side had been badly hurt. Pomona had given him a mug of tea a while before, and it sat full, now cold, in his unmoving hands.

_It wasn't real. It couldn't be real._ Albus had been with him merely hours before, hot and vital under his hands. The idea that he had been killed; had ceased to exist, was more than Horace could bear. The limp body they had found at the foot of the Astronomy tower could not have been the man who led the Light side of this ghastly war, the most accomplished living academic, his own dearest lover.

After the conference in Minerva's office, Horace did not know how long he had sat, exanimate, in the stuffy staffroom. He was vaguely aware that the rush of people died down as a weak dawn began to filter through the leaded lights and the air became colder, and what seemed a few moments later, he was alone.

Or at least, Horace presumed that he had been alone, because the sound of a voice from the doorway made him jump. "Horace? Oh... let me see to that. I'm sorry to have startled you." Minerva waved her wand briskly to clear up the tea that Horace hadn't realized he had spilled. "Would you like a biscuit?"

"No, thank you. I..."

"Me neither."

She walked into the room and sat down in the winged chair opposite Horace. Her face spoke volumes of efficiency, stalwart calmness, carrying on... and beneath it all a desperate, wild kind of hurt. 

Minerva swallowed hard, then began to speak. "We've secured all of the main entrances and exits, I think, and cordoned-off any parts of the building that might be structurally unsafe. Poppy says that the casualties have all stabilized now, although the eldest Weasley is going to be badly scarred."

"Ah, good. I mean... that's a shame - for him..." Horace replied automatically. 

"Yes, it is." Another heavy silence. Horace gazed without focus at the window once more, motionless, not really feeling alive. He was roused however, by a sudden dreadful keening sound from the woman opposite him and then he watched as Minerva collapsed into shaking, violent sobs. "I should have done something, Horace... I should have stopped him!"

Horace leaned forward and made to ineffectually pat Minerva's trembling back. "There, there, my girl. It wasn't... I mean, how could you have known? There was nothing that any of us could have-"

"No! I _knew_ something was wrong. Or at least I could feel that there was something. Something awful!" Minerva gasped breaths and words between her tears, her stoicism coming apart in great wrenches and tugs; a strong tower would never collapse quietly. "Severus - he seemed so preoccupied these past few days - wouldn't come to bed with me, said he was unwell, or busy, or..." Minerva trailed off again, into more tears. Horace did his best to comfort her, although he was aware that did not stretch very far. In a dim corner of his mind, he wondered abstractly whether it was worse to feel the loss of the victim or the traitor more keenly.

"It's a surprise to us all," Horace tried to reason. "Who would have thought after all those years that Severus really was on the side of evil."

"He's not evil!" Minerva surprised even herself with that outburst, stopping her sobbing in it's tracks. She swallowed very hard and tried to dry her eyes on a soggy tartan handkerchief. "I mean... I love him, Horace! That sarcastic, double-crossing bastard... I loved him." She gazed off into the middle distance, tears then rolling silently over her cheeks. "I was just starting to think that we might be able to be together, properly. That Lily Evans was dead and that he might, in time understand that, and see the relationship that we could have had... Even-though I'm so much older - but that never seemed to matter, in fact he almost seemed to prefer it - because he'd seen so much and was so tired inside and was so much older than his years, himself. And he wasn't always cold and cruel, you know. When we were alone he would sometimes relax, make jokes, even be _tender_. And now he's, he's..." Minerva fought to control her tears but they overcame her once more.

Her words struck upon Horace's ears almost as if they were some sort of cruel joke. Here was another person locked in love with a man whom had lived his life in the shadow of someone else, someone from the past. Here was another life, just like his, that had never been allowed to take flight. How perfectly dreadful. 

Those thoughts threatened to swell up and drown Horace altogether, but he firmly pushed them away. _No, I can't. Not now._ Instead, he tried to focus on the immediate situation. "Minerva?" His voice cracked even as he tried to be stoic. "So did you really... know?"

She recovered herself a little and then smiled grimly. "Yes. And no." At that, her reddened eyes narrowed as they gazed off again into the middle distance. "Severus came to me yesterday night. He didn't say much - he never does say much - but he did say, 'farewell'. He wouldn't tell me anything else - he said that he couldn't, that he was under orders not to - but the implication was that he wouldn't be able to say goodbye properly, so he wanted to do it in advance. Of course, everyone will now be certain that those orders came from the Dark Lord, but I'm... I'm not so sure."

"But who else?!" Suddenly, Horace's mind was reeling. "You can't mean that Albus planned... that he intended to..." The idea was outrageous! The very thought that Albus had been calculating his own demise even as they had lain together, as he had promised to come back to Horace, afterwards... 

Horace could feel himself starting to tremble and his head was shaking ferociously from side to side. "No, no... That can't be true..." he whispered, a thousand images of snatched happiness playing before his eyes.

"I don't know, Horace," said Minerva, far more firmly than before. "I feel that I know very little at this particular moment."

He stared at her for a long while, but then realized that she spoke the truth. Minerva grieved just as he did; she meant no harm. "Very well," Horace said, and then he knew he had to change the subject; he'd go mad if he didn't change the subject. "So... what do we do now, my girl? Or perhaps I should get used to calling you, 'Headmistress'?"

"That's the very question that I have been attempting to address all night," Minerva replied wearily. "There may well be calls to close the school, and that is certainly an option... But to me it doesn't seem right. If there are pupils who choose to be here, then we have a duty to teach them."

Horace considered this for a moment, trying to explore the case from his own perspective. Finally, he nodded. "That is one take on the matter; certainly a laudable one. And given the fact that we are all now implicated in the fight against the Death Eaters - explicitly or no - we Professors would probably be safer within the grounds of Hogwarts than anywhere else we might now roam." The notion of such danger made Horace shudder.

"That's right," Minerva concurred. "We care for the children. And when the time comes, we fight!"

"What?!" Horace sat bolt upright in his chair, aghast. "I can't fight! I'm an old man, there's no way that I could..."

Minerva, however, firmly fixed his gaze with her own. "Albus would have wanted you to fight."

*****

**Cloudless and Shining**

The place was light and leafy. By a lake - or perhaps, in a glade. All was bathed in bright, airy loveliness, and small colourful flowers - or were they fairies? - dotted the landscape and made the air tingle with their singing.

A dark-haired, hook-nosed young man stood anxiously by a clouded platform, gazing into the mist around him for some sign of change, of an approach. He seemed joyously impatient, but never anxious.

Finally, a train - a shining, huffing steam train - appeared before him and he dashed to the passenger door, beaming with smiles, despite himself. A raven-haired woman stepped from the carriage into the young man's outstretched arms. She seemed at once overwhelmed and completely comfortable, and he - healthy and whole - was overjoyed to finally see her.

"You took your time," he teased, holding her in a tight embrace.

"Well, someone had to reform the entire British education system!" she retorted.

"Yes, but were all two-hundred and twelve years strictly necessary, my dear? Much as I enjoyed watching, of course."

"Well, there _was_ an awful lot of paperwork..." With that, she slipped from his arms and ran skittishly onto the grass, beckoning him to follow.

"Oh, Minnie..." The young man sighed in exasperation, but had no choice but to run after her, the grounds becoming forever more open and plentiful as they cantered on, laughing, rejoicing.

Nearby, a second couple watched the reunion with pleasure and interest. They were cuddled together on a checked picnic blanket with the remnants of a superb feast about them; a plump, sandy-haired man with a bushy moustache sitting up fairly straight while an auburn-haired man with twinkling eyes and a cute little pot-belly lounged bonelessly in his embrace.

They smiled to one another as the woman came near and waved in greeting, calling towards her:

"My most conscientious student has finally finished her homework, I see!"

"Good to see you, my girl!"

"Oh, Albus! Horace! You're here too. Why, this is simply marvellous; I thought I'd be lucky to see just the person I loved, but others are here, too? We get to talk?" Her eyes shone with excitement at this brand new world.

The man with fiery hair chuckled. "Why yes - you can see whomever to wish to see; it will all become clear in due course. You are correct in observing that the closest person tends to appear first, though. If they've arrived before you, that is."

"Yes, I was lucky, like that," the stouter man concurred, "It _was_ good to have a proper reception. Lends gravitas to the occasion, I find."

"I was waiting," his partner replied simply. They exchanged a fond squeeze.

"Well that's simply super, and we must - Oh!" The woman shrieked slightly and then started to giggle, squirming on the spot. "Severus Snape, stop that tickle charm immediately!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the young man drawled, but he then broke his cover by dashing off in the direction of a cosy house set into some nearby trees, "But perhaps you should follow me, just to make sure?"

"Oh honestly!" the woman cried, and then said brightly, "I'll see you later," to the contented picnickers. 

"Tally-ho!"

"Have fun!"

The pair then nestled closer, exchanging fond kisses and hugs as if reminded of their good fortune.

"I do love you, Albus," whispered the smaller man, stroking his partner's red hair.

"I love you, my dear Horace," replied the other, "And I'm delighted to say that I shall for all eternity."


End file.
